my service in the wine-house began a long time ago,
in the robe of poverty working for those of great fortune.
i lie in ambush for the opportune moment to snare
the pheasant of graceful walk with the net of union.
our preacher doesn’t have a scent of the truth- listen, i speak
my words also in his presence, not behind his back.
like the rising and falling breeze, i run to the friend’s street,
asking for help from fellow travelers for spiritual support.
the dust from your street won’t endure pain such as this,
you have shown kindness, o idol- i will restrain my protests.
her curls are a snare in the path, and her glance calamity.
remember, o heart, all the advice i have given you!
veil the eye of cavil, o noble concealer of faults,
from these brave thoughts in the corner of my solitude.
i am the hafez to the pious, and the drinker of dregs also.
see the humor of how skillfully i play with people!
notes: hafez= one who has memorized the qoran.
